by Darcy Burke
She put her fingers in his and the contact almost sent him back to the floor—on top of her.
Ackley went to the table and plucked up a towel. Ambrose turned to Philippa, blocking her from the other men. “You can’t be in here. How did you even find us?”
“I asked Mrs. Oldham. Why can’t I be here? I’ve watched you fight before.” Her gaze fell to his chest. He watched her lips part to reveal the dainty pink tip of her tongue. For the second time that day, he cursed his lack of garments in order to shield his erection.
Keeping his back to Oldham and Ackley, he led her to the door. “You have to go.”
She put her back to the doorjamb and stared defiantly up at him. “Persuade me.”
His blood stirred at the idea of persuading her to do any number of things, and not one of them involved leaving his presence. “Will you settle for a tour of Beckwith tomorrow?”
Her dark lashes swept over her glittering eyes and her mouth curved up in a slow smile. “I would.”
He braced his hand on the doorjamb over her head, tormenting himself by leaning over her and inhaling deeply of her soft, feminine scent. “In exchange, you’ll stay out of this tower. Understood?” By God, he’d need a haven from her if he was going to maintain his vow.
She dropped her gaze and when she again looked into his eyes, her smile broadened. “Perfectly.”
Chapter Eighteen
THE following morning Philippa stepped from the solar and squinted into the bright sunshine. The rear yard had once been the castle’s keep, and was now a very large walled garden and pasture area. With the sound of seabirds and the gentle breeze from the ocean, it was a beautifully serene setting.
Mrs. Oldham had instructed her that Ambrose was waiting for her in the stables, which were built into the northeast corner of the keep. Philippa followed a path in that direction, eager to see him.
Last night hadn’t gone as planned—him tossing her out of sparring practice was a setback since she’d intended to spend time with him—but she’d been encouraged by his reaction to her. While vexing him wasn’t her goal, she’d take it above indifference. His emotional response at least showed he felt something for her.
The path branched to Beckwith’s stables. She stepped inside where the smell of hay and the nickering of horses greeted her senses. This pleasant moment was instantly overridden by the sound of two male voices raised in argument.
“Milord, ye can’t take a cart!”
“Just hitch the damned thing!”
Philippa strode to where Ambrose was towering over a much shorter, stockier man with a shiny, bald pate. The head groom, perhaps.
Upon seeing Philippa, the man smiled broadly, revealing a gap between his front teeth that, well, a cart could drive through. “Good morning, my lady.”
“Good morning,” she said warmly, though she shot an inquisitive glance at Ambrose who was currently glowering at his retainer. “Is there a problem?”
“Not if you don’t mind bumping around Beckwith in a cart.” The retainer eyed her riding habit. “I’d wager you’re a horsewoman, my lady.”
She inclined her head. “I am, thank you. What’s this about a cart?” She looked between the two men.
“His lordship is planning to take ye on a tour of his fine estate in a cart. That would be acceptable if ye stuck to the dirt track, but to truly appreciate the beauty of Beckwith and the Roseland Peninsula, ye’ll want to go on horseback.” He threw the last word at Ambrose like a dagger.
Philippa thought it more than fair to torture Ambrose just a bit, given his treatment of her. “Oh, but I understand his lordship doesn’t ride.”
The groom gaped, first at her and then at Ambrose. “What? I understood why ye might be avoiding Orpheus, but ye don’t ride at all anymore?”
Anymore. Which meant he’d ridden once. Why had he stopped?
Ambrose glared at his retainer. “Saddle Demetrius.”
The smaller man looked a bit surprised, but nodded before turning to Philippa. “And I’ll saddle Matilda for you, my lady. I’m Welch, by the way.”
“Thank you, Welch,” she said, her gaze straying to Ambrose.
Welch took himself off to the other end of the stable.
A vein pulsed in Ambrose’s neck. He looked furious, but also something else. His face had gone a bit pale.
“We don’t need to ride if you don’t wish to,” she said softly. He was clearly upset about having to ride, and she didn’t want him to be.
“No, I’ll ride.” His lips barely moved, and he didn’t look at her.
“Really, we can take the cart,” she insisted. “Or walk.”
“Come, let’s help Welch.” He didn’t wait for her, but started down the row of stalls. As he passed one in particular, the horse within neighed and danced. Philippa came abreast of the animal and paused. He was a gorgeous black Arabian, and even now he whinnied and strained over the door to watch Ambrose though he’d already passed.
Gingerly, she reached out to stroke his nose. “There, you beautiful lad. You’re all right, aren’t you?”
The Arabian nuzzled her briefly, but stomped his feet.
Philippa startled as Ambrose—he’d apparently doubled back—gripped her wrist and pulled her hand from the horse. The Arabian neighed loudly and pushed forward, toward Ambrose, but Ambrose dragged Philippa away. “Don’t touch that animal.”
His tone was so sharp, so fierce, his hold on her wrist so tight, Philippa merely nodded.
Ambrose let her go and turned abruptly, passing Welch who was leading a dark brown mare.
Welch shook his head behind Ambrose’s back and handed the reins to Philippa. “Here’s Matilda. There’s a block in the yard if ye’d like to mount up.”
She nodded, thinking it best to give Ambrose a few minutes to recover. She’d never seen him so rattled, not even when he’d faced Jagger and his men the night they’d met.
She led Matilda outside and found the block. Five minutes later, Ambrose came out of the stable leading a spirited gray gelding.
He paused for a moment in the yard and Philippa held her breath. How long had it been since he’d ridden? Perhaps not since he’d left Beckwith.
He swung himself onto the horse’s back and walked the animal toward her. Whether it was five years or five minutes since Ambrose’s last ride, Philippa couldn’t tell. He appeared as natural on horseback as she felt. He also looked unbearably handsome in a dark blue coat and buff breeches, a stylish beaver pulled low over his brow, shading his eyes.
“Are you ready?” he asked.
She nodded. They guided their mounts out of the keep. Last night he’d talked of the wall they were repairing and the gate they were building. It looked as if there was quite a bit of work to be done, certainly more than could be accomplished in the next week. Would he leave before it was finished? Or would he stay beyond the fight? She had so many questions to ask him, and not because she wanted to judge. She only wanted to know.
They walked their horses a few minutes, and she came abreast of him. He looked over at her, but she couldn’t see his expression beneath the brim of his hat. However, when his horse picked up speed, she understood it was time to move faster.
Philippa spoke softly to Matilda and took her to a trot. The air was so pure and lovely, the breeze from the ocean so fresh and crisp. There was truly nothing better than riding on a glorious day. She laughed with pure joy as she passed Ambrose and took Matilda to a full run.
She raced along the cliffside. Below, the pale beach stretched along the ocean’s edge, an endless stretch of dark green-blue water intermittently dotted with white. A sound came from behind her, and she turned in the saddle.
Ambrose was bearing down on her. Now she could see his face perfectly. He was livid.
He brought his horse beside hers and snatched the reins from her grasp. Philippa gasped, as shock mingled with a bead of admiration. Though, now was not the time to reflect upon his superior horsemanship.
“What
the hell do you think you’re doing?” he demanded, as he brought his horse to a halt. Watching his muscles tighten and his eyes flash furiously, she was all too aware of the strength of his body and the fragility of his temper. Still, she was weary of him constantly getting angry with her.
She summoned her own ire and glared at him. “Riding a horse. What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“That’s how you ride a horse? At breakneck speed along a path you’ve never ridden before? And then you turn around?” The flesh around his mouth turned pale. He was afraid.
Philippa instantly gentled. She reached out and touched his hand. “I’m an excellent rider. You’ve no need to worry.”
He jerked back, unsettling Demetrius, who danced beneath them. Ambrose tossed her the reins. “Since you’re such an excellent rider, I’m sure you can find your way back to the stables.” He pulled his reins.
She tried to touch him again. “Wait, don’t go.”
He gave her a pained look, then turned and rode off, throwing dirt and grass in his wake. He cut across the field, away from the cliff.
That hadn’t gone at all as planned. She’d scared the wits out of him somehow. She wanted to follow him, but thought it might be better if she approached him later. After he had a chance to work through whatever her actions had stirred.
Resigned, Philippa clutched her reins and leaned over Matilda. “Let us continue. I’m not yet finished with our ride, and you seem to be enjoying yourself too.”
After walking a few minutes along the cliff path, Philippa led her mount away from the breathtaking view of the ocean and cut through a lush green field. With the wind rushing over her face and the scent of the sea behind her, she could almost forget the daunting task she’d undertaken in coming here. But then the tall spire of a church rose before her and she was instantly reminded of where her life was headed—to the altar with a man she’d no desire to wed.
Slowing Matilda, Philippa entered the town of Gerrans. At least she thought it was Gerrans. Mrs. Oldham had described Gerrans as being on the hill and Portscatho down on the bay—really not much farther away to warrant being a separate town, but it was.
She passed the medieval church on the right, which was surrounded by a large yard. Headstones marched neatly across the back. Was Ambrose’s family buried there? His brother?
Further on were cottages and shop fronts, a small inn with a tavern. Then an open area with a few market stalls.
Curious, she dismounted and tethered Matilda to a post. The first stall offered baked pastries and sweetmeats. The delicious scents wafted in the air. So far the wonderful smells of the Roseland Peninsula were unparalleled.
The next stall was operated by a fishmonger, a red-cheeked woman perhaps ten years older than Philippa. She and her customer, a petite and voluptuous woman with blond hair, grew quiet and turned as Philippa approached.
“Good morning,” Philippa greeted.
“Good morning,” the fishmonger said. She gave Philippa a quick, inquisitive perusal. “Ye’re new to town?”
Philippa nodded, unable to keep from glancing at the blond woman. She was quite striking with sparkling, cat-like eyes and full pink lips. Philippa returned her gaze to the fishmonger. “I’m visiting Beckwith.”
The fishmonger’s eyes widened briefly—so briefly, Philippa might’ve missed it. However, there was no mistaking the silent communication between her and the blonde.
The blonde offered a brilliant smile. “Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Miss Lettice Chandler.”
Miss? She had to be at least a few years older than Philippa. Why was a beauty like her unmarried? Maybe for the same reasons as Philippa.
Pleased to meet a—perhaps—like-minded woman, Philippa returned her smile. “I’m Lady Philippa Latham.”
Miss Chandler gestured to the woman in the stall. “Lady Philippa, this is Delores, our beloved fishmonger. You’ll not want for fresh seafood on the Roseland Peninsula.”
Philippa perused the array of fish and other creatures laid out behind Delores on a shaded table. “I can see not.”
“Are you visiting from London, Lady Philippa?” Miss Chandler asked. “I’m from London.”
“Indeed?” Two unmarried misses from London meeting all the way in Cornwall—what were the odds of such an occurrence? “Your family relocated here? That’s quite a distance.”
Delores made a small sound and bent her head. Miss Chandler shot her a glance, but Philippa couldn’t determine if they were exchanging any sort of meaningful communication.
“I came here to marry,” Miss Chandler said, “but unfortunately my betrothed passed on.” How sad, yet why wouldn’t she have returned to London? Philippa was curious, but possessed too much tact to ask. Lydia would ask, if she were here. Miss Chandler added, “It was long ago, and I’m betrothed again. Just recently in fact.”
Long ago? Perhaps Miss Chandler had merely fallen in love with the Roseland Peninsula. Philippa could well understand that happening. She was already halfway there. “Congratulations.”
Miss Chandler gestured toward the High Street. “Would you care to stroll?”
Why not? It wasn’t as if Ambrose was waiting for her at Beckwith. “Yes, thank you.”
They both nodded toward Delores before starting along the High Street.
“You’re Lord Sevrin’s guest?” Miss Chandler tipped her head and looked at her askance. “How is he?”
This wasn’t a simple conversational question, based on the subtle glint in Miss Chandler’s eye. A glint Philippa likely would’ve reflected in her own gaze if she’d asked that question. Suspicion inched up Philippa’s neck.
How to answer? He was an angry reprobate who’d ruined and abandoned her? Philippa wanted to answer with her own question—how should he be?—but wasn’t sure she wanted to know. Nervously, warily, she said, “He’s well. He’s training a fighter for a bout in Truro next week.”
“I’d heard that. I’d no idea he was a pugilist.” Clearly then, Miss Chandler had some knowledge of him.
Could she possibly be the woman Ambrose had ruined? Nigel’s fiancée? Though Philippa had come to Cornwall for answers, now faced with Ambrose’s past in the form of this beautiful woman, she couldn’t quash the anxiety rising within her breast. “Miss Chandler, how do you know Sevrin?”
Miss Chandler stopped and turned toward her. “You haven’t heard of me?”
There could be no question as to Miss Chandler’s identity now. Philippa tensed. The sun seemed to grow hotter, the air more still. “Not by name, but I gather you’re the woman he ruined.” Well, the other woman he’d ruined, but she needn’t share that information.
Miss Chandler reflected no surprise, no outrage. But then she’d lived with this blemish for years. Unlike Philippa, who still cringed whenever she thought of the day Lydia and her aunt had cut her on the street. “He’s told you all about me then?”
“No, he has not.” For that would involve a depth of trust they didn’t share. If they did, she would’ve told him about her impending marriage and what she was really hoping to gain from this visit. “I know you were… lovers.” The word nearly stuck in her throat. Heat raced up her neck and burned her cheeks. She glanced away. “And I know you were betrothed to his brother who apparently died by Ambrose’s hand.”
Miss Chandler’s eyes widened. She raised her hand to her open mouth. “That’s not what happened.”
Philippa’s heart raced. “Any of it?”
“We were lovers, yes, and I was betrothed to Nigel, but Ambrose didn’t kill him.”
“They say Ambrose and Nigel dueled. That Ambrose killed him.”
Miss Chandler shook her head. A sheen of tears glistened in her eyes. “Forgive me.” She withdrew a handkerchief from her pocket and dabbed at her eyes.
Philippa wanted to dislike the woman who Ambrose had chosen above his own brother, a woman who’d cuckolded her fiancé. However, Philippa recalled her own treatment of Allred and felt a peculiar connectio
n to Miss Chandler.
Philippa gestured forward. “Come, let’s walk.”
Miss Chandler walked beside her. “Are you and Ambrose, that is… I should think you would hate me, but perhaps you don’t possess a tendre for him.”
Other women might’ve hated her, but Philippa wanted to get to the heart of Ambrose’s pain and this woman could help her do that. “I’m here to see if Ambrose and I might suit.”
“You’re not betrothed?” Miss Chandler smiled ruefully and shook her head. “Of course not, Ambrose didn’t even propose, did he?”
She felt a stab of pity for Miss Chandler. He’d given Philippa far more consideration than his former lover. “Actually, he did. I refused him.”
Miss Chandler’s mouth dropped open. “Why?”
“I didn’t think he’d make a very good husband. And I’m still not sure. Why didn’t he propose to you?”
“He didn’t want to. But even if he did, I don’t think he would’ve married me. I’d only remind him of Nigel, of how he—how we—wronged him.”
Philippa noted Miss Chandler said nothing of love. “But he took care of you. I mean, you’re here, and you seem to be all right.” It was really none of Philippa’s business how Miss Chandler survived, but she was curious nonetheless.
“Yes, Ambrose purchased a cottage for me.” She glanced away. “My father didn’t want me to come back to London.”
“I’m so sorry.” Philippa wondered if her father would treat her the same if she refused to marry Sir Mortimer.
“He was so proud I was to marry a viscount. I hadn’t given him much hope, you see. Plenty of men were interested, but none of them offered for me. When Nigel patronized Father’s shop—he’s a tailor—and fell in love with me, Father was thrilled. He could hardly wait for us to go to Cornwall and marry, which was Nigel’s preference.”
“And when you didn’t marry, he didn’t want you to return home.”
Miss Chandler shook her head. “I haven’t corresponded with him in five years.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
